Twisted Knives
by Lady-SM
Summary: Nolanverse Joker/Harley. Rating may go up for later chapters. Harley returns home one night to a dark scene that shocks even her.
1. Chapter 1

This has been sitting on my computer for ever and ever – mostly a series of snippets at the moment, which I might turn into a proper story if people like it. For now, make up your own mind as to what has come before, I'd love to hear what you think to my Nolanverse Joker and Harley.

I don't own any of these things. Obviously. I'm just borrowing them and occasionally allowing for gratuitous nudity from Heath Ledger's Joker.

;)

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><p>He twisted the knife in his fingers, catching the skin of his palm more than once but either he did not notice or he did not care. He stared down at the blade, turning it this way and that in the hope of finding some answers in the cold steel of it's countenance. He got nothing; just the bitterness of his own reflection.<p>

His head cocked to the right; a door had been unlocked downstairs. He did not worry, for anyone untoward would not possess a key, nor the desire to use one. Footsteps on the flagstone, then another door. She did not come upstairs yet.

The knife begged once more for his attention. This one he could see clearly, for it was right there in his hand. It didn't seem right that this one should sit there, innocent, causing no pain, when another – though invisible – stabbed at his insides over and over. It tore through his gut, his heart and his head. It was unrelenting, but he could not see it. The knife in his hand seemed to weep. It wanted a piece of the action.

He turned it slowly in his hand, blade down, handle clasped tightly in his gloved fist. Then he brought it down fast. The little demon buried itself to the hilt in his tortured flesh, slicing a path through fabric, skin and taught muscle until it was defeated by bone. His fingers uncurled, leaving the knife quivering in his thigh. Or perhaps it was he that shivered so.

He watched it. He watched the blood too, but he felt no pain. It was nothing compared to the frenzied attacks of the invisible blade, but this one he could control; with this one he could watch his own blood pooling, staining the already dirtied cloth of his trousers and seeping away. Perhaps this madness of reality would seep away with it. He watched it drip to the floor, smearing the face of a distressed old woman pictured on the front page. Blood on her colourless cheeks.

Harley crept along the corridor and paused at the door to their room, hesitating more than just a little before she finally resolved to open the door. It was closed to, and she could see his silhouette perched on the bed outlined against the sunset, which flooded a carelessly open window.

She pushed the door with her finger, as though that would make it quieter. It creaked a little as it opened, and her footsteps were less than silent on the rotting floor boards. She edged closer, not quite daring to approach the bed.

"Is everything okay…?" she asked, carefully. She had to be careful wording questions when he was in a mood such as this; for he was clearly in a mood. Something was wrong – there had been photographs on the news and rumours she didn't know that she could believe. There was silence, so she tried a different approach; "Mr J… baby…?"

Still nothing. Nothing but the gentle sound of a dripping tap. She would have to find that tap later; it would drive her mad.

Very, very carefully, she took a couple of steps closer and crawled onto the bed. She would know soon enough if he wanted to be left alone; if he shrugged her off – or worse – she would leave him. Perhaps she should leave anyway, but out of weakness or compassion, she stayed. She would always stay.

Harley reached out with a delicate hand, and stroked a slender finger along his purple clad shoulder blade. Nothing. So far, so good. She was beginning to wonder if this whole situation could be resolved by her tender touch… followed by what was likely to be a particularly violent session of love making; and selfish too, on his part. If that was what it took to ease his pain, she would do it. Her hands snaked under the fabric of his coat; and then she saw it.

She'd seen a lot in her time, but the sight of her lover's favourite knife embedded in his own leg still shocked her. She withdrew her hands in an instant and almost fell over herself in her scramble to the ground at his feet, desperate to get a closer look.

"Oh baby… what have you done?" she mumbled, not expecting an answer. Her fingers itched to pull it straight out, but he stared at the handle so intently that she suspected she would probably die if she did. Instead, she bought herself some time and hurried to a bedside cabinet to retrieve a cloth, alcohol and some bandages. She always kept a stock with her, such was the nature of their relationship. Whether it was down to his doing or hers, she visited the chemist once a week to replenish an ever failing supply.

Harley knelt beside him, wondering how on earth she was going to get through to him – for he hadn't even acknowledged her presence. The knees of her jeans grew damp; his own blood was creeping from the newspaper and soaking her through. She felt sick, and reached down to dispose of the sodden scarlet rag. The paper tore in her fingers; this was a mistake.

Quick as a flash, he ripped the knife from his thigh. A trail of blood burst forth onto Harley's white t-shirt and splattered her skin. She didn't have time to care; the knife was under her jaw, it's point close to her ear.

"Don't _touch_that," was all he said, his menacing glare now fixed on her. Harley swallowed heavily and nodded, holding up her hands to show that she really had put the paper down. He held the knife there for what seemed like an age, his breath felt harsh against her skin as it came in short, sharp bursts. She became aware, once again, of the dripping – though it came from no tap.

"Jack," she said, quietly and firmly, as she did her best to ignore the blade that dug into her throat. "You're bleeding. Let me take a look at it, that's all I want to do, I promise."

She knew exactly how to work him. She was the only person who'd ever spent enough time around him – alive – to have the chance to learn. He brought the knife down, but he didn't let it go. He held it in his hand as his arm fell limply to his side.

His right trouser leg was wet through. Harley tried her best to get a look at the wound but could barely even see the tear in the material. She thought for a moment about cutting it, but it would mean more hassle and yet more sharp implements, which she wasn't prepared to hand to him on a platter. Bracing herself, she sat back on her heels and regarded him with care.

"I can't see, you're gonna need to take your pants off."

Those eyes, those black sunken eyes seemed to bore into her very soul. Oh, how she longed for it to be another night – _any other night_– when those words would have been countered with a disgustingly outrageous declaration. When he would snigger at her, laugh and joke and play until suddenly it got serious, and all jokes were forgotten. Tonight though, he stared blankly with dead eyes. She hesitated, for this was unfamiliar territory even for them. Gingerly, she knelt in front of him and reached out to unbuckle his belt.

She watched him the whole time, for looking away would be a mistake akin to turning ones back on a cobra. No reaction when she unzipped his fly, nothing when she had to wriggle about to pull the waist band down from his waist and over his hips; it was only when she began to gently tease the fabric from the fresh wound above his knee that his expression changed. To Harley's surprise, his eyes clouded over in a way that was alike to that which she had observed in him many times before when she'd been in a similar position, though in better circumstances. Those times were about pleasure, today he wanted the pain; he needed the pain. That was all very well and good – she could understand that. She stopped being gentle and yanked his pants firmly over his knees, letting them drop to his ankles. It was a good move – some blood had dried, and the coarse fabric tore at the healing wound. Harley could swear she saw his eye lids flutter. She pulled off his boots roughly and tossed them aside, and afterwards rid him completely of the burden of his pants.

It was quite a sight. His left leg was pale and unspoiled, save for the few superficial scars that littered the skin here and there. His right leg was crimson right down to the toes. Harley noted that he regarded it with a kind of pride before she started to clean it up.

She got rid of the blood first, mainly because she couldn't stand to look at it. When most of it was gone she reached for the bottle of alcohol, but he put out a hand to stop her.

"_Harley_," he murmured, his hand clasped firmly around her wrist. She glanced up into his eyes and saw a thousand meanings. She loved the way he said her name; somehow he always put the intonation in the wrong place, but it sounded so right. She cleared her throat, and tested a theory.

"Baby, you gotta promise me you're not gonna lose it right now, because this is gonna hurt," she said, staring straight into his crazed eyes as she did so. As she expected, they lit up.

"I'm serious," she continued. "This stuff burns like a bitch." As if to emphasise her point, Harley reached purposefully for the used knife in his other hand. She lifted up his fist, which was still curled tightly around the handle, and let her own arm fall against it, slashing her delicate skin with expert ease. She watched his eyes narrow in interest as she poured a liberal amount of alcohol onto the bloodstained cloth and held it over her own wound. Her eyes closed tightly as she felt the familiar prickle under her skin and she couldn't help but take a quick hiss of breath when the new, clean pain seared through her body. When her eyes opened again, she saw her Joker watching her with hunger in his eyes. She let the cloth fall away, and her lover lifted her arm to his lips, pulling her up between his legs as he did so, and planted a lingering kiss over her self inflicted wound. Harley smiled a little; although he often hurt her, she knew it was because he was so addicted to making her better. She really was his pet, but this pet knew how to handle her master.

She took a little longer to clean the wound than she would normally have done, and made sure to hold the cloth down extra hard while she waited for the bleeding to cease. Finally, it did, and she was able to bind it tightly with her bandages. It was done.

As she had wound the bandages around his leg, his mind had wandered. She sat back and saw that his gaze was now fixed on the window; the sun had nearly set. Harley took a moment to take a closer look at the paper on the ground beside her, taking care not to touch it. She read the headline, and glanced back at him. So it was true, or some of it must be. He never asked her about her past, and she never asked about his. He'd told her as much as he wanted to; she wouldn't press him for information.

Harley pushed herself up onto her knees again, she settled herself on the ground between her lover's legs and brought her hands to his face.

"Hey," she said gently, her fingers in his hair and her thumbs making circles on his temples. "Why so serious, Mr J?" If anyone else said it, it meant instant death… if they were lucky. When Harley said it, it was different. Perhaps it was because she knew him so well. Perhaps it was because she alone knew the true story of where his scars came from. Or perhaps it was because after she said it, she would trace his scars with her mouth and kiss away the memory, always pulling away with red rosebud lips. His eyes closed, and she kissed both of them as well. He pulled her onto his lap, securing her legs around his waist. Harley knew she must be hurting him, and that thought gave her comfort. He wanted to hurt for the time being and she would help him for now, but her mind was set on making him better.

She could feel his mild desire, though it was usually alive for her this time of evening. Tonight was not the time though, she reasoned. He would have thrown her onto the bed and gotten on with it if it were. Instead, she buried her face in his neck and breathed in his scent. It was crisp as always, slightly minty, but today tarnished by the metallic stench of blood. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, and felt his arms snake up around her back. The knife was gone, probably into a pocket somewhere. His strong hands could splay across her shoulders from one side to the other, and she felt safe in his arms. How very strange it must seem to the outside world, that a young woman like her had only ever felt safe in the arms of a psychopath. But she understood him, and therefore she did not fear him. Much.

Harley eased his heavy purple coat from his shoulders, and began working on the buttons of his waistcoat. Eventually she managed to remove every offending item of clothing – save for his underwear – and when she was done she climbed off of his lap carefully, moving around to the other side of the bed to pull back their sheets. He sat there, unmoving, while she kicked off her own shoes, pulled off her jeans and peeled off her damp t-shirt. Clad in only her red and black bra and panties, she was finally able to coax him into bed.

He curled up on his side, and she made sure the quilt covered them both before draping herself around him as best she could. She wanted to hold him; she never got to do that, it was always the other way around. As he drifted into a troubled sleep she twirled his hair through her fingers and whispered a question.

"Baby," she murmured quietly. "Do you want me to kill the asshole?"

There was silence, and the room darkened. The last rays of the sun had finally died.

"No," came the muffled response. "I'll do it."

Harley nodded against his bare shoulder; "What do you want me to do?" she asked in the twilight. It took so long for him to answer that Harley thought he may just have fallen asleep.

"Jack…" she prompted, brushing her lips against his cold back, "what do you want me to do?"

"You're doing it," he replied, and said no more. Harley sighed. This, she could do.


	2. Chapter 2

Okay – a few people like. Phew! I shall post a bit more then. As I said, this is mainly snippets – I know I kind of planted a seed with the mysterious newspaper article in the last chapter but you'll forgive me for not elaborating… yet. I'm going to take all these ingredients and put them into an actual story length story, but for now, I love to hear what you think of what I've already got.

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><p>Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh shitty fuck. Harley clenched her fists tightly; she was actually done for. Not only had she been caught, but she'd been caught red handed. Her own stupid fault! Why had she ever listened to Ivy? <em>Because Jack told you not to, <em>her mind reminded her.

Jack. That was a name she couldn't even think of. She couldn't risk them finding out she was linked to the Joker.

"Ms Quinzel, we know you're linked with the Joker."

Oh fuckedy fuck.

"I most certainly am not," Harley defended vehemently, all the while desperately searching for a way out of this mess. She was in a windowless room, stripped of all weapons. The only door was guarded by two cops with _very _dangerous looking machine guns. Gordon sat opposite her with his arms folded, regarding her carefully. Only a cold white table separated them. She tried her damnedest to rearrange her expression into that of an innocent person, but even if she could it wouldn't do any good. These guys well and truly had her number.

The commissioner sighed. "Ms Quinzel, your finger prints have been matched to countless crime scenes. We may not have been able to match the prints of your associate… he's remarkably thorough like that. But, the Joker likes to leave his calling card, doesn't he?"

Associate? Jack would love to hear himself called that. He'd also like to take the playing card Gordon was toying with and carve him a new smile.

"Look, Harleen," Harley noted the change in tone, the shift in stance, the way Gordon gave her a little smile of assurance; she knew that look, it was the look Jack gave her when he was trying to get her to admit to something she didn't want to. Mind you, she didn't think Gordon was about to throw a knife at her head if she didn't. "Whatever he's got on you, we can help you. We can offer you protection."

Harley scoffed; "No," she said, chuckling. "You can't."

"You had a great thing going for you," the commissioner continued. "You graduated first in your class, published three papers on criminal psychosis in your first two years at Arkham… says here that your superiors had you pegged as the best thing to happen to that place in years. You were destined for greatness… and then you met the Joker."

"Who's reports have you been reading? Crane's? That's a very reliable source, Commissioner."

Gordon paused, then gave a quick nod to the cops on the door. They looked uneasy, but left all the same. When the door had closed, he turned back to Harley.

"Harleen," he said, kindly. "The Joker's dangerous. You must know that if you've spent time with him. I don't suppose you got those scars by playing in a sand box."

Bad move Gordon, touchy subject.

"He didn't give me these," Harley spat, having had just about enough. Would they just prosecute her already? "And you're wasting your time keeping me here, he's not going to come for me."

Gordon looked genuinely surprised.

"I don't know if you're familiar with police procedure Harleen, but I'm keeping you here for questioning, not as bait."

Harley bit her lip and said nothing. Gordon hadn't even considered that the Joker might want to rescue her; was it wishful thinking on her part? Had she just made a huge mistake and planted a seed in Gordon's mind that she would regret?

"You wanna question, so question." She muttered, deflated. Gordon's brow furrowed, but he got up and undid her cuffs. When she was free she shrugged off her red leather jacket and stripped off her gloves; the two things that reminded her of her Joker, for he had given them to her. She shook out her hair, and stared straight at the man before her. "What do you want to know?"

Gordon almost chuckled; "You're going to tell me?"

"Ask me your questions; I won't lie."

"Why the hell not?"

"I figure I'm going down either way." Harley replied, looking him right in the eye. He shrugged;

"I guess it depends on your answers." Gordon parried, leaning his elbows on the table. "Now, the security cameras detected two women; one was you. Who was the other?"

Harley's eyebrow's raised; "You didn't catch her?"

Gordon didn't answer, but repeated his earlier question. Harley's mind had flown into overdrive; Ivy had escaped, she would tell Jack what had happened, or Jack would find her and get it out of her somehow, and then he would come… Suddenly, Harley remembered. She remembered the way his eyes had gone so cold when he'd shouted at her to get out. She remembered the burn of his fist in her face. Most of all, she remembered her own tears splashing onto the flagstone while he threw her jacket out after her. He didn't look back. Not once. That night, she'd spent the evening crying herself to sleep on Ivy's couch. He'd spent it blowing up a sky scraper.

"It was Poison Ivy," she told him, knowing that the woman would never want her to take all the credit.

"Do you know Poison Ivy's true identity?"

"Sure, as well as she knows mine." _And Jack's. _Harley rolled her eyes. "Geez Commissioner, I thought you had a lifetime of experience with super villains. We don't chat."

"Why did you break into the security vault, Harleen?" Gordon asked gently, "I think we both know you weren't looking for diamonds."

"Oh no, I was," Harley replied, fervently. "I wanted a great big diamond. All for myself." _So that Jack would see that I don't need him. _Well, that had blown up in her face; she had messed it up, while his evening of chaos had gone uninterrupted. She needed him, he didn't need her. She wanted him… but he wasn't by her side, so he clearly didn't want her. If that was true, what on earth had she gone and thrown her life away for?

Harley dropped her head, bashing the table with force. Gordon flinched, but he didn't speak. He waited, and watched.

Harley went over and over their last words. He'd told her he was sick of her, that he didn't want to play their game any more. She'd told him that her life was not a game. She'd brought up things she shouldn't have done; she shouldn't have mentioned his mother. She shouldn't have mentioned that moment of weakness that he'd had; she knew he'd trusted her never to speak of it. She was stupid, it was her fault.

"I wasn't working with Ivy," Harley said, finally. "I had the idea, she went along with it. We're not a femme fatale tag team, it was just a one off… to cheer me up. You're right, I used to work with the Joker. But I don't anymore."

"Why not?"

"Let's call it trouble in paradise. He threw me out on my ass." Harley cursed herself, there were tears welling in her eyes. Damnit! Gordon sat back, frowning. He'd seen them.

"Harleen, exactly how closely did you work with him?"

"I'm a lady Commissioner, I don't kiss and tell." Harley retorted, but her heart wasn't in it. She bit her lip as she said it, and was reminded of him. The taste of him on her lips, it would linger forever. "Something I learned at Arkham – in fact, I wrote a paper on it – is that to truly understand a murderous psychopath, you have to be a little bit tapped yourself."

Gordon sighed. "Harleen, you're not a psychopath. You're not even a killer. I haven't got any murders to pin on you, just a couple of robberies, a break in or two. You don't owe this creep anything, just take a look at what's happened to you since you got involved with him. I can get you your life back."

For the first time, Harley allowed herself to be hopeful. She saw that the Commissioner was not lying. He really would help her, she could go back to a semi normal life. All she would have to do would be to turn in the man she loved.

"Just tell me where I can find him, Harleen," Gordon pressed. "I won't hurt him, I swear. I just want him off the streets."

"I…" Harley started, just as the lights began to flicker. She frowned, but the man before her didn't even seem to notice. He just kept asking that question. "I can't," she muttered, shaking her head. "I can't tell you that."

"You can," Gordon insisted. "What's stopping you?"

"I…" the lights went out. Gordon jumped to his feet. Harley could only whisper; "I love him."

The Commissioner's police radio crackled into life. For a moment, Harley thought she was imagining it, but when she saw the horror in Gordon's eyes, flashing in the green light from the screen, she knew it was really there. Laughter. Maniacal, psychotic laughter. The laughter of the Joker.

Harley's eyes grew wide, and without thinking she dived for the commissioner over the table, just as an explosion blew the door clean off it's hinges. They both hit the floor hard, but Gordon landed harder. He laid there, dazed but alive. Harley pushed herself upright, hardly daring to believe that the figure amid the smouldering dust cloud was that of her lover.

"J-Jack?" she whispered, coughing despite herself. The smoke cleared, and there was that grin. His eyes were no longer cold; they flickered with the light of chaos.

"Turns out," he began, eyes flicking to the stirring commissioner. "Turns out I got used to having a woman's touch around the place,"

Harley saw red, and not the red of her attire. "That's why you want me back?" she demanded, "To clean up your secret lair?"

The Joker lowered his head and stared up at her, smirking sardonically; "I ran out of socks."

"Ran out of… are you actually… what the hell are you doing coming after me if you're just going to keep treating me like shit?" she screamed. "You can't do this to me anymore, okay? Just – just –" he was approaching, getting closer and closer, the tails of his purple coat brushing over the barely conscious form Gordon as he stepped over him towards her. His hands had just reached hers when Harley lost it completely, she tore her hands away and jumped back away from him. "NO!" she screeched, as manically as he could have done. "Get the _hell _away from me!"

"You heard the lady, Joker," Foolish, _foolish _Gordon choked from the floor. The Joker's eyes clouded and his eyes narrowed in annoyance. He did not want Gordon interfering with his private life. That was _not _funny. He grabbed the lapels of the commissioner's jacket and lifted him off the ground with unnatural ease. Gordon was not deterred. "Leave Ms Quinzel alone; she's not coming with you."

The Joker roared with anger and brought Gordon slamming down onto the interrogation table in seconds. The commissioner spluttered and gasped; all the wind had been knocked out of him. He barely had time to struggle before the knife was at his throat.

Harley saw it and flew forward, just as half the GPD finally made it through the rubble and swarmed into the room.

"Freeze!" the one in front hollered, but when he saw his CO pinned to the white table, he faltered and held out an arm to stop his fellow officers. The Joker laughed in Gordon's face, his cracked makeup covering what little trace of humanity he had left.

"Care to make any more _demands, _commissioner? Hmm? HMM?" he shook the man so much that the blade caught his chin, a deep cut slicing across his jaw. Harley glanced fearfully at the officers, but their eyes were fixed on their commander. The Joker was still in full swing.

"Maybe you'd like a little _harlequin _of your own, huh? I could have gotcha one… maybe if you'd asked nicely. But I can't let you just _take mine..._" Gordon could feel the Joker's breath on his skin; the knife now pressed against the inside of his mouth. "Did she tell tales, commissioner? Did she tell you how I got these _scars?_ She did, didn't she? It's a good job she's here, now she can tell your loved ones how you got yours…"

"No, Mr J," Harley said suddenly, taking hold of his arm. "I didn't tell him anything about you." The Joker wasn't listening. "Baby, come _on_,"she hissed; "we gotta get out of here!"

There was silence; Harley was about to try again, to make him listen however she could, when Gordon flew across the room, crashing into his own men and sending them tumbling like bowling pins. The Joker spun around, his arms held out wide, oblivious to the weapons pointed at his head.

"_I _gotta get out of here," he corrected, glaring at her. "You're an ungrateful little pincushion aren't you?"

"Get down on the damn floor you asshole!" Gordon yelled, his gun drawn and directed at the clown in his interrogation room. "NOW!"

"Do you mind commissioner, we're kinda having a moment here,"

"To hell with it, Joker, I don't have time for your games. Get down on the floor or I'll shoot!"

Harley leapt in front of her lover, shielding him from the commissioner; "No way, I didn't stop him killing you so you could blow him to hell,"

"Oh, he's not going to hurt me Harley baby," the Joker sneered, and grabbed her around the waist pulling her tight against him. "Not when I've got you here anyway." He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back so he could whisper in her ear. "Now make a wish!" She heard the pin of the grenade fall, and lifted her hands to her ears just in time. The wall behind them exploded, leaving them exposed to the elements. The Joker kept hold of his girl until the dust cleared, then he looked her in the eye for the first time that day.

"You wanna come with me, beautiful?" he murmured, his dark eyes sparkling. Harley thought for a moment about the commissioner's offer, but she knew it would never be enough. She didn't want to live without Jack; she couldn't. She looked right back at him, then smiled.

"Always," she whispered. He grinned, and his eyes lit up.

"Time to fly sweet cheeks! Here's a little trick I learned from the bat boy…"

Harley's stomach lurched, and air rushed past her ears. They were flying through the air, strung up by a wire attached to a departing plane. Bullets rushed past her feet, but she knew Gordon wouldn't aim at her. The GPD building shrunk quickly, and soon enough they were inside a rather rickety old plane.


	3. Chapter 3

Harley dropped down onto the bed, more from exhaustion than anything else. The last forty eight hours had been a blur, and she hadn't slept much. He didn't speak when he came in, just took of his shoes and his jacket, and then perched at the table in the corner, pouring over blue prints from his latest conquest. Harley didn't have the strength to speak; to question him. She didn't dare to bring up the argument that had separated them, or to mention Poison Ivy. She needn't have worried though, because before long she didn't need to. She'd fallen asleep.

She woke to the feel of his fingers dancing on her cheek. Through sleepy eyes, she smiled, realising that he had pulled the covers up around her as she'd slept. He laid beside her, resting on his elbow and watching her.

"You know it's not about the socks," he said, his lips smacking and his tongue darting out nervously. Harley wriggled and freed her own hand, bringing it to rest on top of his.

"I did wonder," she murmured, turning her head to lightly kiss his fingers. "So what's it about, Jack?"

He didn't say anything for a while, just kept stroking her face with a gentleness only she knew he possessed. Then, at last, he spoke.

"You've always come back before," he said, his black painted eyes narrowed in suspicion. Harley felt her body stiffen. She'd remembered who he was, and in that moment all of her self control came flooding back. She needed to control who she was around him, otherwise she could say something that could make him snap. She had a brief flashback to her days at Arkham; what would the old her of thought of this new Harleen? Was she being smart, or was she a victim? She loved him, but if he didn't love her surely she might as well have been a white trash mother of six on the receiving end of a drunken wife beater's temper. Why did she justify what she was doing with him, but she would never have entertained the idea if it was anyone else.

Carefully, very carefully, she reminded him; "We've never had a fight that big before."

There was silence. Slowly, Harley pushed herself up to a sitting position which he mirrored. The knife had appeared in his hand again, and he twirled it around like a tiny baton. Harley watched it, wary but calm.

"You know… you can't throw me out on the street these days. I may not be as wanted as you, but they still want me off the streets. I gave up my old life, Jack. Ours are intertwined now."

All of a sudden, the air became cold. Harley found herself crushed against the metal bed stead, the cold steel of his knife against her bottom lip and the full weight of his body pressed against hers.

"I didn't ask for you," he spat, watching her gasp for breath. He held back after a while; he didn't want to actually suffocate her. Soon, Harley's breathing went back to normal, and she was able to speak.

"I know you didn't," she whispered. "But you wanted me to come, didn't you?" He didn't answer, and the blade still pressed against her skin. Harley fought back a sob. "Come on baby, I need some reassurance here. Just tell me you want me… you came after me, that's gotta mean something, right?"

"I didn't come because I want you," he muttered, pushing away from her and stalking over to the other side of the room. Harley slumped against the head board, massaging her chest where his arm had bruised her. He kept mumbling, but she couldn't hear what he was saying. Eventually, he turned back to her. Harley watched him fearfully as he approached the bed. She could hear him now.

"I don't get what I need, I get what I want," he said, his hands painting a picture in the air. "What I _want _is a new Gotham, a new _world _full of chaos and destruction, because chaos is _fair._ I want to see governments fall and cities burn, so that all that's left are embers, embers that glow and grow into something different. That is what I _want_, but I haven't got it. Instead, I've got _you_. I wanted to get rid of you, I wanted you gone and you were. I didn't want you back but I needed – I _needed _you here. I don't want to _need _things, why do I need you Harley, huh? _Why do I need you?_" Harley's eyes were wide, and she couldn't speak. She didn't know what to say. His face was animated; his eyes more alive than she had ever seen them. She shuddered when his voice changed, when it became inhuman, almost like a bark or a roar. He sat down on the bed and reached out, grabbing hold of her with one arm and pulling her close to him. His spare hand curled around the fabric of her shirt and tore it away. Harley gasped, and tried desperately not to squeal. Her bra was exposed, and he ran his rough fingers over the silvery 'J' engraved on her breast.

"So perfectly broken," he mumbled, his eyes raking over her entire body. "So small, so easy to _snap_," his hands had come to rest on her neck, and Harley felt herself swallow heavily. "But I can't, because if I did, I wouldn't be able to have you. And I need you. Why do I need you?" his grip loosened, and his fingers returned to the 'J'. He traced the letter, then lowered his head and pressed a warm kiss to her skin. Harley felt herself melt, but she was more frightened than she had ever been around him.

"Gordon offered me a trade," she whispered. "Your whereabouts for my life back, as it was." He didn't raise his head, but he was still so she knew he was listening. She ran cautious fingers through his hair. "I would never have told him, because although sometimes I want my old life back, I don't need it. I need _you_, Jack, and that doesn't make me weaker than I was before. I think it makes me stronger."

Still he didn't look up, but Harley kept playing with his hair, for it often soothed him. She became aware of his kisses, over and over on the scar he'd made. His hands snaked up to her shoulders and pulled at what was left of her torn shirt which came away with ease. She smiled as he pulled her bra strap down over her shoulder, and she arched her back a little to allow him to undo the clasp behind her.

His lips left her breast and began to make a trail to her neck, kissing along her throat and all along her jaw. Harley grabbed a fist full of his hair and pulled his head up, forcing him to look at her at last.

"Tell me you need me," she said, gazing into his eyes. He looked even more afraid than she was when he answered;

"I _need _you," Harley didn't wait for anything else, and smashed her lips against his with all the force she had. For a moment, it seemed he wasn't going to respond but then he took hold of either side of her head and pushed her down onto the bed, their lips never breaking contact. Harley tore at the buttons of his vest and he wrenched open her jeans.

His fingers groped at her clumsily, but Harley could wait for him to calm down enough to focus on what he was doing. She'd gotten his vest off and tugged at his tie, loosening it quickly and unbuttoning his shirt until finally she was able to run her nails over the smooth skin beneath. He had scars from a life full of beatings, but the skin of his chest was clear enough. Harley bent her head to press kisses onto his skin, and as she did his furious onslaught on her slowed. Harley gasped when his aim suddenly hit the spot and his fingers were inside her in the best way. His thumb rubbed her in expert circles, and for a moment she forgot everything that had happened and moaned in delight, lifting her hips to get closer to his touch.

Harley whimpered in protest when his hand left her underwear, but she smiled when she felt the insisted tug of her jeans being pulled down over her hips. She did her best to help the situation and wriggled out of them, shivering from the sudden rush of cold when she realised her underwear had gone too. He soon warmed her up, and Harley opened her eyes to see his above her. She reached up and held his face with her hands, smirking when his makeup smudged under her fingers. She knew she must have plenty of it on her face already.

"You're so beautiful," she murmured, as he playfully bit her nose. His eyes flew down, taking a sudden great interest in the fabric of her underwear. If his cheeks hadn't been covered in makeup, she would have seen he was blushing.

"No I'm not," he replied, his eyes closing and lips lingering on that last letter.

Harley sighed, knowing he had never believed her when she'd told him she found him attractive. She forced his head up a little – gently, of course – but she couldn't force his eyes. "Hey," she prompted, trying to find her way into his line of vision. "You might not believe it baby, but that doesn't mean it's not true. I didn't believe in miracles until I saw you standing in that doorway." She fought back a chuckle as she prepared to tease him; "Don'tcha wanna tell me _I'm_ beautiful Mr J?"

Finally, he looked into her eyes. She stopped laughing. She felt him between her legs; somehow his pants had gone along with his shirt and tie, but she couldn't remember taking them off. She waited for him to say something, but after such a long silence she wondered if he ever would. Then he caught her off guard.

He thrust inside her with such force that she thought she was going to split in two; she cried out in surprise and ecstasy, and she gasped when she felt him grab hold of her hair roughly and pull her face down to look at him, she was panting, and she felt sweat running down her forehead.

"_Now _you're beautiful," he hissed.


End file.
